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HILLACRE BOOKHOUSE 

RIVERSIDE, CONNECTICUT 

MCMXV 



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Copyright, igi^ 

By Frederick C. Bursch 

Printed at Hillacre 

Nov.- Dec. igi4 



1 






GO 
< 

CO 



TO LIFE 



WHOSE VARIED PHASES HAVE INSPIRED 
THIS LITTLE VOLUME 



' Twas but a fragment of a hidden soul^ 
They found it buried there beneath a stone that lay 
Across the portal of a shrine, within the scroll 
A passion spent on love; to whom — the poet didnt 
say. 



NEW YORK, 3 A. M. 
Low sinks the waning moon o'er wharves 
Whose wearied arms but beg and never pay. 
A frenzied midnight passed the city's towers — 
The blood-red tombs of vanquished day. 

O, hours, bind up the wounds from cruel laws 
Which men have made and God lets stay ; 
Dream on, blind builders of a fruitless time, 
To-morrows are as yesterday. 

O, thou forgetfulness, hold fast a little while 
Until there shall be born 

Our measured space of strife, now on its way, — 
Enscrolled on the loom of morn. 



lO 



LA MELANCHOLIA. 

Some blast of hell or hate has blown across my soul, 
And lo, that which I builded well in yester sun 
Has shrunk within these hands, so very small, it 

seems 
I am a nameless, homeless wandering wretch, undone. 

I, like some luckless beggar ever strive to pawn 
That which were gold, in days o'er passed ; alas, I 

find 
It worthless, even faith has lost its minting coin, — 
Beyond redemption's goal I'm beaten by the wind. 

In some far land of sun the joyous speak me fair 
Of sweetest flowers that grow beneath the bluest 

sky,— 
All now so pains my mind, such awful dreads arise 
Lest I shall sudden come upon these joys, and die. 



II 



RAIN ON TAUNTON LAKE. 

The morning radiance of the sky is now withdrawn ; 
The clouds hover near, to listen for the signal wind 
In shadow form, — 

From the half-shut hand of God, in great windswept 
Rows, across the fertile bosom of the lake is poured 
The first seed of the storm. 



LIFE. 

With low thrills of joy and yet with sense of being 

half afraid, 
She feels the chrysalis house of life, its stir and swell, 
Soon it will open to sweet romance, a new soul will 

blossom there, 
Whose fruiting shall make for her a heaven or hell. 



13 



COURAGE. 
"Is there no other path?" one hears the timid ask. 
Who loiter on the lesser heights — to rest and sigh; 
Above, beyond the mist and cloud, one hears the 

Voice, 
"The brave ascend my peak and ever win, or die." 



A MORNING PHANTASY. 

The light awoke the jeweled tree and bird; 
They were the only things I saw and heard; 
And as I woke there came a tiny stir, 
A breeze that teased awake the mighty fir. 
Which trembled now, lest sweetest gifts of dawn 
Might be from all the world so swift withdrawn ; 
Alas, one sought the spiral stair of song ; 
The other wept its sadness all day long. 



15 



THE MOTOR BOAT. 

She's part of the wayward fancy of the seagull's 

wing, — 
Still more, of the mad caprice of a wave's crested 

swing 
As she spumes her way on the long sea's swell or 

dip between ; 
To you and me and the glorious sea she is our 

queen. 

Oh, toss of head! oh, whirr and throb of the spin- 
ning wheel ! 

We give you right o' way and sense the wild joy 
you feel. 

Oh ! that one might store the pulsing song of life 
and light 

Which thrills your phantom soul, arace this glad 
star -lit night. 



i6 



THE CRY OF THE SNOWS. 

" We- we -weary, so weary, hi -mi, hi -mi," 
All day long this is the snow's pathetic cry; 
" We -we -weary, so weary in fingers and toes," 
Such is the age-long cry of the frozen snows. 

Ah, why are the snows so pained and troubled now? 
They're trampled and bitten by the angry frost. 
And each carter's wheel that blunders on its way 
Arouses the cry of the snow till joy be lost. 

" We -we -weary, so weary, hi -mi, hi -mi," 
All day long this is the snow's pathetic cry ; 
" We-we-weary, so weary in fingers and toes," 
Such is the age-long cry of the frozen snows. 

Now that I know the secret cause of it all 

I'm undone; the snow's fear is mine own heart's 

cry; 
We come from the skies to the desolate street, 
Here death mocks us ever, yet we cannot die. 

" We -we -weary, so weary, hi -mi, hi -mi," 
All day long this is the snow's pathetic cry; 
" We -we -weary, so weary in fingers and toes," 
Such is the age - long cry of the frozen snows. 



17 



DEATH. 

" O, unearthly radiance, who art thou?" I asked; 
" I am Death," the voice from the central light 

replied, 
" Strange hates and fears the many peopled ages past 
Have builded on my name and to my cause allied. 

"Still more strange, few beside the wise or lover 

know 
I am the great passion behind the show of things ; 
The lovelorn seek me in the sad sea's undertow. 
And science fails unless its wick has tapped my 

springs. 

"To some, I am a gate to the world's end, un- 
known — 

To others going home I am the long sought way, 

Where joy sits waiting, and no song hath sweeter 
tone ; 

Upon their brow I place a royal kiss alway." 



i8 



ILLNESS. 

I lie afloat upon the days and nights, 

I scarce do know the tide be up or down ; 

What may one from this Saragossan sea ? — 

A tear to add to all our human woe, 

Or weeds to drape or swathe the passing year ? 

Ah no, let's only keep its calmed undertow. 



19 



A REPROACH. 

Now stand ye forth, ye hellhound of my brain ; 
Ye have tricked me long behind the oldest memory 

screens, 
All builded in my youthful night, thy creation's 

hour, — 
Still lurks about, thy visage dark such frightening 

dreams. 

Never before have I dared thee stand in the blazen 

sunlight — 
To fight thee with the frank yet simple truth, 
But now I see a feckless hour of unrequited love 
Brought ye in — ye long fest'ring dream of idle 

youth ! 



CONVALESCENCE. 

To-day I lie the nether side the rock of Illness, 
Its stillness most my soul deplores; 
I see the jetsam in the upper vortexed world, 
Its whirl ne'er ends and ceaseless roars. 

Shall I seek again that maelstrom fray ? 
Already, discord in my soul is not so great, — 
And from some hidden spring of constant faith 
A wraith of hope still bids me patiently wait. 



THE DREAMER. 

With tinsel trappings brought from natal hour, 

He builds his summer days of hope and time ; 

His castles each possess a central tower 

That spells a wish up which his loves entwine. 

Old age now walks the silent parapet, 

And bids the dreamer end the building quest ; 

And he, as you or I, makes ready set 

The central tower for Death, our greatest guest. 



22 



ONE NIGHT. 

The sleepless Eye above beholds the fireman thrust 

His coal from dulled heap to furnace maw; 

So deftly is a primal age transformed 

To heat and light we fail to grasp the larger law. 

Afar in early night one hears some mongrel spurn 
The pavement bare, and then he raises paw 
At sudden stop, low whines his mate to join 
The orgies dark; they, too, reveal eternal law. 



23 



THE SUNKEN ISLAND. 
' Twas but yesterday my palms fretted their idle 

hours in the listless breeze, 
I waited long, very long for my tender shoots to 

grow to fronded trees ; 
And here and there I let the wandering matted vine 

take root to my estate, 
I thought I builded strong on the bosom of the rock, 

so broad, vast and great. 

Alas, my enemy came ; not from whirling skies 

above or brazen sun. 
Nor o'er the sea wall round about whose years of 

toil had fended tides arun — 
No cyclone's wrath, nor angry hurl of sea had ever 

slashed my greenest dell, — 
He came, from source undreamed, the cooling globe 

withdrew its arms, and lo, I fell 

Down, down through the awful green-black night, 

the ocean's pall now swathes my gentle palms. 
And I, throughout the long ages of slow decay shall 

sit alone, in calms, 
While the sun shines on, the winds drift by, singing 

a dirge above the place 
Where once I gladdened the low horizon bar, and 

smiled in the sailor's face. 



*4 



A MEMORY. 
Here and there and everywhere, 
A sense, a touch, of her dear care ; 
And gentlest breeze in stately fir 
Revives the way and grace of her. 

For who shall say this passing day 
Hath left no trace of her sweet face ? 
All things awake a haunting loss ; 
Some minor chord is struck across. 



25 



MARCH IN APRIL. 
The plaintive robin bids the North wind cease 

blowing. 
It may so win its wish, so transcend our knowing 
That his simplest plan may show the wiser course, — 
We, too, might ask, gain much denied by force. 



26 



THE POET. 

What so joyous as thy heart, like the song of a bird, 

Its treasure, the glad joy of the world till now un- 
heard ; 

Sweetest birds may nest, then go away and ne'er 
return, 

But thou, O poet, bring'st cheer and lights that 
ever burn. 



27 



MOODS. 
Before the storm I've felt the brush of swifting 
Whirl of wind; it teased my heart's unrest. 
I've known the depths of woe; its batlike wings 
Made darkness seem so near my soul confessed. 
So strange my heart must cry in thunder smoke, 
Or sink in some mad torture's deep abyss; 
O Spirit Mood, make free my eager heart 
To seek the great wide plain, — forgetful ness. 



28 



THE SUN GOD. 
So oft I've gazed in the eye of the dying, setting 

sun — 
But to-day ere it full set I glanced back to the 

snowy lawn ; 
On its whitened breast the purple stains came out 

clear, one by one, 
Ghostly signs of an ancient sacrifice to faith. — Come 

Dawn ! 



29 



THE NIGHT BORN. 

Just as one drops o' er conscious rim of day and 

sinks to sleep, to dream, 
Just as one feels the tensed nerves release their 

ceaseless task of care. 
We gain the ecstasy, the borderline of life and death 

between. 
Ah, then there comes vague sense of pow'r divine, 

sublime beyond compare ! 

Throughout the mad transmuting whirl of things 

that come and go on earth. 
We see the spirit mood that seeps like sunlight 

through and through. 
It weaves all worlds in time and space with woof of 

tragic common birth. 
And thus illumines all with haunting sense our 

souls alone are true. 



30 



INTRAMURAL. 

They delved and weighed my mind for days on end. 
They found odd jots of dreams like twisted bars of 

steel, 
They sought therein by simple quest to spell my 

soul, 
And strove to find the thing they could not feel. 

"'Tis strange," they said, "his rhythm of life is 

broke. 
For now he sits all day so listless, sad and calm. — 
We'll bind his wounds anew, soon mend his broken 

soul. 
With food and shelter, these shall be our balm," 

O God, make thou these purblind souls to see 
That shielding walls ne'er ope the heart, nor set it 

free, — 
Much less the mind ; our need is earth and sea, 
A bit of sun, a taste of Life's immensity. 



3» 



MONA LISA. 

With naught of bitterness she sits, a Magdalene. 

A glow of stilled beauty beats about her form 

For God had touched her soul alight with hope and 

life. 
And all the circumambient air bespeaks of morn. 

Her face, by some far music stirred, revealed a smile. 
Which baffled all the wisdom ages strove to mass 
Until the master, Leonardo, caught it there — 
The strange, undying smile which Mona Lisa has. 



32 



A BOY. 

He is some part of the newest, greening things, — 
Half a rogue, who seeks the last before the first; 
He would e'en taste forbidden gladness ere it springs 
From a source no elder strives to slake his thirst. 

Quick to hate as love, most cruel jest of youth. 
He wears no sombre garments such as patience 

spins ; 
Why wish to change this tenderest bud of truth ? 
All of life itself forbids, condemns our sins. 



33 



THE GIFT THAT FAILED. 

To me in natal hour was given the spark, divine, 
And yet through the years I strove to make it all 

my own, 
Through long nights I burned this star-dust in a 

lowly lamp, 
Or made it serve as gilt for the lonely hours, half 

grown. 

"Where hidden shines my cosmic star?" the Mas- 
ter asks, 

'* I gave it thee to light the darkened way for all 
mankind;" 

Ah ! I cannot say what joy it gave in selfish use, — 

I lost all its glory on a cold and spendthrift wind. 



34 



PROCESSIONAL 

Out of the harbor sails his Viking soul, 
Down the long reaches of the lonely sea ; 
To him life hath just yielded all her dole. 
Full soon death shall sing her sad mystery. 

Shall you or I stay his proud tide or sail, 
So that we may have him bide here alway ? 
Others shall come, ne'er shall the future fail 
To build an age, sufficient for its day. 



35 



A WAYSIDE MOOD. 

I may not reach the glad or tragic height of laureled 
song, 

My soul is wearied now of rhyme and all its tram- 
meled throng; 

O, verse companions bright, look back at me yet 
once again, — 

A one-time weary trav'ler, plodding homeward in 
the rain. 



36 



SOCIALISM. 

For him an age-long agony o'erflowed the earth 

again, 
The ancient conflict, wage and dole, had stung afresh 

his mind; 
It forced his stubborn speech to point the way to 

right the state. 
With all-compelling fire he spoke to those so lately 

blind ; 
He felt so sure he knew the plan to set all ills 

aright. 
He heeded not a little child, alert with eager ears ; 
Within its outstretched hands it bore the dearest 

thing it had, — 
A broken toy to mend, much loved, and stained by 

human tears. 



37 



THE POETS. 
May we ne'er write or speak our hearts' desire. 
Lest we be called the mad, the visionaire ; 
We take no credit for the thoughts we think, — 
They are both yours and ours, the spirit air. 

You breathe it when you sing, or play the lute. 
Or love a maid or child ; it wells your eyes 
With tears when val'rous deeds are told ; some day 
Shall make you see it, altogether wise. 

When halting fragments of our hidden souls 
Shall weave the perfect whole, eternal woof. 
All fashioned out our bits of woe and song. 
Upon the mighty dome, the temple's roof. 



38 



IMPUDENCE. 

One tiny wave strove long in baffling task 
To lift the hurtling sand to rock - ledged shore; 
But, vexed at last, it doffed its patience -mask 
And roundly swore 'twould build the world no 
more. 



39 



GOLDENROD. 

The sun did scatter far and near its golden beams, 
They lay amid the grain, on ripening fruit as well ; 
But now a busy autumn wind has reaped again 
Its clustered heaps of gold, within each lovely dell. 



40 



A CHRISTMAS JINGLE. 

All stark and stiff in icy armor clad, 
The trees of greens and reds which summer knew 
A jocund frost awaked, and though quite mad, 
They're dressed as Christmas toys for me and you. 



4» 



THE SPENDERS AND MISERS. 

The dead lay still, — so still it seemed they'd never 

lived ; 
Unceasing moved the cloistered ones on quiet tread 
Lest Life might find them out, compel obeisance 

yet. 
And fill the one with hope renewed, the other dread. 

The dead had spent their golden days in search of 

love; 
The living seek the miser course, eternal bliss. 
And shun the paltry sum, their human day ; 
But ever lurks their sin - desire — the lover's kiss. 



42 



AUTUMN. 

O quiet insensate Earth ! 

Who stirred thy dogged sense to power, 

Transmuted all thy latent ash and clod 

To elms and oaks which, like inverted bells, 

Rain down their awful Autumn doom ! 

Thy saddened leaves are heaped in funeral pyre, 

Whilst I, alone, must perish in the fire. 



43 



CONSERVATION. 

Within the ashy heart of dead desire 
There always lurks a single spark of fire 
To kindle hope of roseate dawn again, — 
Or burn another soul in fear and pain. 



4+ 



O HUSH! 

See my spring, so slender poised on the valley's rim, 
His mere presence shown in the pale willows* gold — 
He nods but faintly hears the winter's shrill scold — 
May we touch his hand ? Ah, no, we might wake 
him. 



45 



INCONSTANCY. 

I whisper words and my thoughts are dead ; 
I breathe a sigh and my love's withdrawn ; 
I do not dread : I only fear 
The silence long, when thou art gone. 



46 



THE CRY OF DAWN. 
When thou, O Dawn, hath pushed the hills apart, 
And thy pale light creeps from nether shore. 
Each tiny wave but wakes my sleeping heart 
To voice the Memnon-cry of ancient lore. 



47 



AN ECHO. 
' Tis not so much that music dies beyond recall 
When we accept the perfect stillness of the ground, — 
But that we miss the marv'lous clouds of latest Fall 
And wistful upward look of flowers earth -lodged 
and bound. 



48 



THE NUNS. 
The days to them are always just the same ; 
Their conflict's o'er, its pain beyond compare; 
They bar the paths of life, its joy or stain. 
Their feet shall never touch the spiral stair 
That leads to wondrous light or dark abyss ; 
They choose to blind the soul in robes of death. 
And walk like those who never taste of bliss, — 
Serene and calm, each one a Saint Elizabeth. 



49 



TARDINESS. 

Out of the common weed the honey bee distills an 

essence, meekness, 
Out of the briary thicket the wood thrush fashions 

delicious madness; 
Out of the bitterness of my heart shall I yet spin 

songs of sweetness. 
Out of the black darkness of my soul there yet shall 

spring the light of gladness ; 
Above it all a sacred praise shall rise to Him whose 

wand of greatness 
Hath doomed my tardy wine - press oozings, drop 

by drop, to bear in lateness. 



50 



THE PARDONED. 

So newly have I come from chambered death 

Life blinds my eyes. So long have I been numbered 

With the dead, I scarce can feel 

The blossoming Spring or one remembered thing. 

So lately have men shunned my face 

Which hath near worn the masque of death, 

I fear to press it back again upon the world. 

And thus contrite, I wait without the prison gate. 

So deeply have I branded sin upon my soul, 
No fettered steel may take away its pain . 
O, God ! make thou Thy world less glad and free. 
So I may expiate my awful living fate. 



5* 



UNNATURAL HISTORY. 

To-day I saw a lizard lying deep amid the 

grass ; 
With eyes aglow in hate he spat his venom at a fly ; 
The fly unharmed walked quickly up the tallest 

lily stalk, 
And then he buzzed abuse until I saw the lizard cry ! 



52 



THE IMMUTABLE. 

Between them God had let a blank of years fall 

down ; 
Estranged, they had not sensed the width nor 

height of wall. 
Yet now that which was meant to be a lasting silence 

failed. 
Chance met, — they stood and wondered, not at 

broken thrall 
But why they drifted from their love once lithe and 

free. 
Far distant bits of wit now pierced their hearts and 

minds. 
Their souls no longer grasped the once familiar 

speech ; 
Both felt the denser air so long unused to winds . 
Each knew that neither hope nor friendly inter- 
change 
Could ever make their love alive or keen again. 
' Twas thus their souls stayed fixed in primal hate 

of sex — 
Sic semper lex^ their endless doom and lasting pain. 



53 



RARE RIPES. 

What tragic pity fills the orchard close 

Whose fruiting is so like our common lot ; 

So big its promise, that May ensnares 

The air with perfume far and near. 

Each newness brings a gladsome singing Spring; 

One bud doth dream the same as those that set 

The perfect fruit; it swells its portent pride, 

It flaunts the passing winds, and lo, its opening eyes 

Behold that richer, larger buds have gone before 

And spilled a greater fragrance there, 

And these usurp the right of place and favor of the 

sun, 
Foredooming later buds to early, fruitless death. 
The stealthy creep of sap no heed nor pity takes. 
It moves by ancient law that little cares and never 

spares ; 
The starveling fights unequal tasks for right of place. 
The pulsing Spring but mocks its day athirst, 
Beside baptismal font of early June. 
None may rightly count the waiting hours of life 
So unfulfilled that hope dies quite, — 
The heart and soul uncalled ; until one desperate 

hour. 
While all about midsummer swoons, a rare ripe 

touched. 
Though scarcely stirred by jostling breeze — 
Releases all that binds its life, and some infrequent 

passerby 

54 



But faintly hears or heedless notes 

The tragic end of fruit that falls, so useless on the 

sod. 
We ask, is this but part of Thy unfinished plan, O 

God? 



55 



THE DYING PAGAN. 

Ah, then must we submit to this great change 
In name, in spirit once so dear, so feared 
That all was bound in a vortexed whirl about 
Emotion's goal. I care not who has built or reared 
The order new; the old is gone and we alone 
Shall never feel gigantic moments rise again. 
To mock, to haunt, to grieve the soul of man ; 
All has become so dull, there is no sense of pain 
For us to know the wondrous peace, a sweet release 
From nights of agonizing dread ; it was so good 
To bathe in cooling dawn our fevered brows. 
The surcease calm that came when we quite under- 
stood. 
When we had learned to kiss the rod ; submit 
To that we could not cheat nor buy ; had guessed 
The meaning clear. No guide nor rule had we, 
' Twas just defiance doubly damned that bore the 

test 
Or broke the heart outright. We knew what pity 

meant 
In olden days, for might not we on cross or rack 
Or wheel, the same some morrow claim, and in 
A crucificial pain no endless horror lack ? 
And now by some simple act or strange device 
Man rids his soul of fear and dread ; he hates 
And loves the less because his heart is steeled 
From frosts or passion's fierce desire, unknown to 
Fates 

56 



That made the primal man surcharge the air 
With fury -hate, and love's apostolate of balm 
Was held so dear that men sought peace nor rest 
Until its touchstone lay at hand for storms or calm, — 
It eased the morning dread without, that often 

struck 
With pain or death 



57 



PARESIS. 

The battle's lost; the dread destroyer enters in, — 
Unhinging gates, uptaking old foundation stones ; 
It saps the secret stores of mind and soul within. 
To mocking jest the vanquished host replies in tones 
That spell delusions mad, of grandeur false and thin. 
Instead, the vandal builds a tinsel temple there. 
Each passing fancy shapes anew its gaudy form ; 
Stupendous pile, o'erlaid with brilliants, blazing, 

rare. 
Tho' lorded host mere hovel has to keep him warm 
He bids us enter in and tread his golden stair. 
This tragic drama ends; as dusk presages night 
So fades away this stuff of dreams, in mind diseased ; 
The grandest fabrics fade, are lost from memory 

quite ; 
If fatuous lord within his ruins sad, is teased. 
He solely cries, "An entrance, gold!" and then, 

the night. 



58 



YSAYE'S ART. 

His lambient flame of melody plays in and out 
Through shimmering fold of music's irridescent 

dream ; 
Life's pities, sorrows, stay and weep without. 
While sings eternal voice, his art supreme. 



59 



THE CONFLICT. 

'Twixt day and night the fates grind out my soul ; 
My conscience stands by millstone-day's unrest, 
A miller, censor, judge; it plays each role, — 
Each act it strives to grind in living quest. 
But millstone-night rejects, refuses all, 
Because the grain hath lost its germ of life ; 
Thus work of conscious day my dreams enthrall, 
Alas, what end my soul throughout such strife! 



60 



AN EPILEPTIC CRISIS. 
Discordant clangor strikes the fearing heart, 
Whose warning nerves send quiv'ring message home ; 
Hell's fury bursts, it leaps the prostrate form. 
The senses fade and drift the night-tide lone. 



6i 



DUSK SONG. 

Birch leaves bedight with splashing light. 

Sing glad sun song through days so long, 

And rippling beech alive with speech 

Replies as quivering mists of dusk enthrill. 

It whispers words to sunset birds 

Whose tumbling call invites the fall 

Of evening shade, so softly laid 

That night, with pinions poised, falls noiseless, still. 



62 



HIS IDEAL. 

No funeral pyre shall mark her end; 
Its hellish glee would quite erase 
Her form with searing flame and lend 
No death in some immortal place; 
Where she might walk the night betimes, 
As ghost or wailing wind and stir 
His lonely heart to melt in rhymes 
Of love, or dreadful hate of her. 



63 



THE SLAVE. 

Up, up the stumbling path, 
The fearful night's ascent. 

But now I glimpse the dawn. 
Who choked that ancient road, 
Beset with pitfalls dire ? 

By whom the yoke first drawn ? 
The curse of Cain seems less 

Than his who placed the yoke, — 
And his who thus endured. 
O shame of vasalage ! 

That day revoked our rights 

And forged the hate uncured. 



64 



LOVE. 

Upon that ancient tree of hate is grafted love, 

From family scions, countless ages bred. 

What essence lies within that common bitter fruit 

Whose life upon such stubborn force is fed ? 

*Tis filial love debarred, transfixed by conscious 

guilt 
And born itself of hates, forbidden fruits. 
Contending sex 'gainst sex as primal sun and earth 
Wage warring hates which only love transmutes. 



65 



TO RODIN'S "FACE." 

How long hast thou this monolith indwelled, — 
What force eternal drove thee forth at last, 
What love or hate did will thee thrust forthwith ? 
Reposing at thy ease in marble womb, 
Reluctant birth is shown by pained surprise. 
So hath one seen the same in thousand eyes. 
Through ages shalt thou feel a pity glance 
Cast full on thee, expelled thy Eden couch ; 
Thou art not free, with scarce a look without. — 
'Tis better so, thy master's dream, half dreamed, - 
For none may more than guess the meaning-end. 
And, straightway, make place for foe or friend. 



66 



TO L. L. E. 

To some a drop of dew is but a drop of dew, 
Whilst thou hast keenly seen within this spangled 

light 
A dawn unspent, a chrysalis day that's yet to be, 
That is so vainly hinted at in moonlit night. 



67 



PRIEST IN CONFESSIONAL. 
Ah, once my courage failed, 

And now I am a broken reed ; 
'Twas a secret thought of long, so long ago ; 
Doomed am I to keep the vigils dire 
And hear the endless debt of other men I, too, 

might owe. 
And tho' I shudder at the cost, 
My soul is hungered for the fiery draught; 
And tho' I unrepentant pass my days as they, 
I, too, would bear their load, 

I, too, would sin and pray. 



68 



SYMPATHY. 

To those who pass their scrolled lives before my 

eyes, 
To those who let their awful fears and dreams arise, 
To vex, to haunt and pain and grieve their day 

again ; 
I bid you know my soul ne'er lies in sheltered place. 
Unmindful of your piteous plea for aid and grace; 
Your conflict's mine, even its hell and all its stain. 



69 



TO MADAM P. B. 

Thy soul is like the oak, — 

So bold, yet tender, true; 
A bleak north wind may blow 

Across thy heaven's blue, 
And stir thy awful wrath 

To rend its lofty dome; 
And yet, in gentlest breeze 

One hears sweet organ tone. 



70 



GOD'S FOOL. 

With eyes transfixed in vacant stare, 
Throughout the day he waits and delves, 
And hopes as best he may, somewhere. 
To find the God that in him dwells. 
His quest may end, that God is Fate, 
And thus his aged-childish soul 
Shall seek in vain. Why then await 
The bondage here, without a goal ? 



7« 



THE BELLEVUE MORGUE. 

Through years thy halls resound with anguish, pain ; 
Thy walls contain no outward swinging gate; 
Thou art a stern and dread apostolate. 
Must ever thus thy serving-mission reign, 
Or shall some dawn release thy weary stay ? 
O, urn of Death, then rest in common clay. 



72 



THE VESTAL PIGEONS. 

Ministers we 'tween skies and seas 

On minaret or belfry close. 

We scatter dusk and incense sleep 

'Neath glowing tops of autumn trees, 

And paint the magic sunset rose. 

We send new hopes, distilled with dew. 

To keep the faith with all mankind. 

This is our holy mission, true — 

On minaret or belfry close. 

God's purpose so ? Who knows ! Who knows ! 



73 



THE SEA GULLS. 

With whirr of wings and cacophonic cry, 

You, the birds and I 
Ascend the spiral stair of cheating air 

And sail athwart the sky. 
Below, the magic pine a sentry stands, 

By wood rimmed sea; 
To guard the weary gulls afloat to-day 

Such as you and me. 



74 



JOHN MASEFIELD. 

His gold from out the jealous sea, 
The pain from madd'ning whip of wind; 
These somewise feed his restless soul. 
O Seas forgive, O winds make free 
His eager heart. For such are blind 
To paying thefts, the genius-goal. 



7S 



THE QUEST. 

Perhaps to-morrow holds no potent sun, 
But be as bleak as moors of yesterday ; 
Still love and chance will lure us on and on, 
No quest is lost that fires our souls alway. 



76 



AN ANCIENT CRY. 
What do the crows keep calling, calling all day long ? 
Their strange, familiar cry is flung against the hill 
And echoes back again in loud derisive call ; 
It spells brigandage might still makes a right of will. 
And warns a cruel death to him who stays o'erlong, — 
'Tis this the crows keep calling, calling all day long. 



77 



THE STATUS.* 

I know not why God burdens so ! 

Convulsed with pain 
And bathed in stup'rous death, 
Contending hells possess my prostrate form; 

My muscles knot, 
The blood stands still; 
The breath not less than spirit 

filled with woe. 
I live, I die. 

And nights enslave my soul. 
Ah, God, why burden so ! 

Yet slay entire 
And rend the body quite. 

But let my spirit go ! 
The awful pain, the black night-tide, 

Unconsciousness — 
I hope no gift from heaven nor hell, 
I only ask for rest, by some great boulder rock, 

unmoved. 
Forgotten if thou wilt! 

*The Status is a condition of epilepsy in which the convulsion 
follows another so closely that coma and death not infrequently 
supervene from exhaustion. 



79 



THE FLOWER ARTIFICERS 

With fingers deft is spun and spun 

The vital force from other lives and other suns, 

This cunning power is fit for life 

To wisely fashion children-flowers. 

Ah, thou so deft and skilled, repay, repay. 

Lest God may take revenge some day, some day. 



19 



A STORM DOG. 

O storm that chokes the western gate, 
Unenvied manger dog thou art, 
Thou won't let waiting night come in 
Nor yet let peaceful day depart. 



80 



TO A RAVEN. 

The bleak and wintry days have oped their eyes, 

This April day lights up thy loosening mail. 

Keen shafts of sun doth clang and glance 

From off thy evil head, O bird. 

Thy slow metallic lustre stirred, now molts its winter 

hue; 
Methinks I hear that ancient clank of steel which 

Munesuke knew. 



8i 



A NORTHERN GOD. 
A sun ray smote the ancient northern god ; 
Awake, the Yukon ripped the ice floes free; 
And flung them leashed, to chaff in eddy maw. 
And thus, unbound, he raged for open sea. 



A SUNSET BIRD. 

From towering cliffs above, 
All cedar clad and gray, 

Pours down a rill of raphsody, 
A liquid lyre, 

A sunset bird, 

On minaret afire. 



83 



♦' And in their calm blue depths is mirrored there 
The whole wide emerald of the plain." 

Carducci, "Pious Ox." 

TO CARDUCCI. 

'Tis said in Polynesia far there lives a giant palm 
Whose mighty bowl contains a resinous heart, 
So small its pith whole trunks consumed are 
For single drop of precious dew that saves 
Each drop a thousand souls, made pure therewith. 
So in the poet's realm a questing soul may some- 
times find 
One precious couplet twain which hath that power 

divine 
To touch to gladsome Spring some fainting heart 

near lost. 
Ah, so I find those wondrous lines, 
Carducci, thine! 



84 



A WORD TO THE WISE. 

The fool hath jeered, "There is no God!" 
Thereon the foolish wise build fears. 
Ah, could be known His chast'ning rod 
'Twould save the wise some useless tears. 



85 



A SPRING BACCHANAL. 

The idle May is drunk with flowering sweets 
And reels adown the Spring its hourly stay; 
Alas ! that May should cast her fruits away 
In riot mad, on this, her holiday. 



86 



THE AUTUMN SPINNER. 

Strange thoughts flit here in evening air, 
Moves on this fading autumn day. 
One lonely star in saffron sky 
Invites the lowly sitting dusk 
To spin her golden purple web, 
And screen the tide of years away. 



87 



THE PARANOIAC. 

Too clearly hath he seen the end that may not be, 
Too keenly hath he loved the thing he may not have; 
Through this a Nessus shirt of madness cloaks him in. 
Whose self destroying fire is fed by child desire. 
No refuge may he make nor lesser love partake ; 
'Tis all transmuted now in rancous bitter hate, — 
Such hate that'sonly born of love, a wish debarred, — 
From which he shapes a shield and sword which he 

may wield. 
To him 'tis life and hate, or love and death, a fate 
Which we do greatly sin to try to force apart. — 
To cast such armor off, though it to you and me 
So ill conditioned seem, so like unto a dream. 



88 



CONSCIENCE. 

She was a gentle maid, I did not make her cry ; 
Still in my heart I felt she thought it must be I. 
Alas, half mended was her heart and broken song ; 
I little knew how deep her hurt and cruel wrong. 
Methinks on rainy days, she comes in mists to strain 
Her anxious face against the attic window pane. 
And strive as best I may, the attic loft is lone ; 
The wind-harps in her hands unceasing sigh and 
moan. 



89 



THE FEUD. 

The purpose with the day, dies — 
Gone is life ; the empty shell 
Released from heated breach, waits ! 
'Tis now a passion spent ; grieves 
One who questions silent fates. 



90 



THE SNOW IMAGE. 
Alas, that winter's chill should pass 
And leave no trace of man of snow; 
His form is hid amid the grass, 
His face shines out where daisies grow. 



9' 



THE SYBARITE. 

Thou ingrate bee ! O haste away 

And heed the glowing twilight call. 

Why linger still for one last sip 

At closing wayside nectary ! 

The goldenrod and purple aster 

But paint thy bacchanal day a deeper dye ; 

Alas, I hear thy maudlin murmurings 

That ask, and ask for more and more. 

Thou ingrate bee ! O haste away 

And heed the glowing twilight call. 



92 



TWILIGHT OF THE SOUL. 

Death waits and utter stillness reigns ; 
Not even bitter tears may fall, 
For only silence makes us strong ; 
Her soul is now beyond recall. 
And yet, expectant, still, she lies. 
Thus seeming waits the Master Hand 
To set some tendril free at last. 
Which none may see nor understand. 
Her form, a fragrant petall'd rose. 
Still lingers on its slender stem. 
Until a passing touch of wind 
Shall fold it back to earth again. 



93 



THE PURPLE GENTIAN. 

The fringed purple dusk spins out 
Thy calyx waxen green, — 

A candelabra low to grace 

The dying year, unseen. 



94 



THE MATERNAL MARSHES. 

O restless soul, O lowly marsh, lie still; 

Thou drank'st deep of freshet spring and made a 

marriage bed 
That bore and nursed a myriad brood ; 
They throve among thy matted locks and sang their 

cricket lays 
And chirped their dusk and matin songs ; 
In gauzy burnished armor clad they swarmed and 

fought and played. 
And then in fevered haste, before the drought. 
They stole away and left thee lone and comfortless ; 
To-day thy fountain tufts are dry and autumn brown 
And shrilly flaunt the passing winds ; 
O wait until thy foster brood shall creep unto thy 

barren breast 
And sweetly make their little hymns to honor thee 
And praise thy patient, good and wise maternity. 



95 



THE PSYCHIATRIC CLINIC. 
To A. M. 

I know I shall not feel His wondrous healing power, 
I may not reach that far off goal of mental health 

again ; 
Yet through the vigils dire the night may feed my 

soul 
With awful thoughts far worse than death or any pain. 
Yet dawn is here. Behold, no more the prison pen 
Shall crush my brain with noisome vice and hate. 
No more is heard a heUish glee of those who gloat 

and jibe 
My madness, stung beyond control, most hapless fate. 

Somehow within my mind's distempered dreams I 

sense a force 
Of one who surely binds and fetters thoughts that 

bode me ill; 
I know his hand shall soothe and yet compassion me, 
And somewise make plain the way to mend my 

broken will. 
To him belongs that healing art, a task divine, 
From lowly Nazarine, transmitted down the ages 

where 
His gentle art may kindle still my saddened day to 

Spring, 
Restore my buried hopes, now lost in soul's despair. 



96 



BEYOND PRICE. 

The giver gave, and quite as swiftly took away his 

wondrous songs 
That bore such hope to humankind ; 
The singer sang, because he must, and men rejoiced, 
For hearing, sorrows fled their grieving heart and 

mind. 

Alas, in sun-baked market place he offered gifts for 

sale 
With vended cloths and wares of common pawn ; 
The people mocked his laureled heights of song 
And cried revenge on him who coined the rift of 

dawn. 

Amid the frightful heat his dust-choked voice was 

lost; 
The singer strove to coin his gifts, by avarice led 

astray ; — 
In silent fear he sits and waits the gift's return. 
Which giver gave, and quite as swiftly took away. 



97 



THE FIRST MUSIC. 

'Twas echoing cliff and whip of wind, 

Its voice was the sob of the sea, 

As it combed the beach before the storm, 

'Twas like a stir in pine or fir. 

Or as the whisp'ring reed ; 

A minor chord, new born of song and love. 

O, hush, the cliffs asleep. 

And the winds lie low; 
The sea's at rest in its cradled bay, 
Repentant now of angry mood; its raging ire 
Is spent for just a little while. 
One tiny wave comes tripping 'cross his lyre. 



98 



AN APRIL FROST. 
A sense of tragic pity dwells within my heart, 
For see, the tender fingered Spring in April air 
Hath reached too far, too soon to taste the sweets 

of sun, 
And now a heedless early frost hath pained it 

unaware. 



99 



TO HILLTOP. 

Thy tireless feet of service wait 
The drear return of dusks and dawns ; 
Oh, stay, for Spring shall creep about 
Thy knees and children on thy lawns. 



too 



THE STETHOSCOPE. 

Resonant, clear, O fateful messenger. 

Thou speakest to my ear that which may slay or 

cheer. 
And thus on service bent thou bringst well or ill ; 
Whate'er thy eavesdrop mouth may find to fill. 

Thou telltale tube, thy whispering breath is filled 
With secret tones, by varied murmurs thrilled ; 
Though faithful, swift, I cry a truce unto thy art; 
One thing thou must not gossip of, — a broken 
heart. 



lOI 



AUGUST FIELDS. 

The reaped and barren fields so lonely lie ; 
No more I hear in gusty winds of rain 
O'er tossing flowers adance on windy towers, 
The vanished cry of lover -quail again; 
Alas, no more he floats o'er paling wheat 
Now garnered in, withdrawn from August skies. 
With longing gaze the fields bereaved look up ; 
I pray sweet aftermath shall close their eyes. 



I02 



EARLIEST SPRING. 

All day the chittering swallows pattern clay — 
New houses build, new hopes fulfill ; 
And yet my heart so saddened is, to hear 
In gathering chill of sunset hill, 
( Where barren rocks still lie asleep. 

With blinding mist about their feet ) 
One lonely waif of early Spring who sits and cries 
" Ste eat ? Ste eat ? What's to eat ? 



103 



UNMASKED. 

The tide of masquers moved the whole night 

through ; 
One saintly form in purest white arrayed ; 
I sought to spell that soul behind her guise, 
With half consent my hand she gently stayed. 

At last the master bade them all unmask; 

1 stood beside the waking censor grim, 

To note her face, uncloaked from maze and dream; 

Ah me ! the dawn revealed my favorite sin. 



104 



THE PSYCHOANALYST. 

He pierces microcosmic dreams to probe our souls, 
In which he traces potent trends for good or ill; 
O, thou microscopist, asearch the finite mind, 
Where distant shall thou rest to ply thy lever will — 
To loose tenacious wish that binds and fetters all ? 
This tie pervades all dust and force of sentient life ; 
Why strive to urge the hearts content with lesser 

things 
Or sublimate such sacred tasks to common strife ? 



lO^ 



THE INDIAN MOTHER'S LAMENT. 

Ah ! once I thought my whole of tragic pain for aye 

was done 
When loosed became the mystic tie by which our 

hearts were bound; 
The parting now has just begun, his mind has gone 

the way 
That birdlings go, that fly the skies unheeding 

mother -ground. 

To-day his youthful soul took airy flight on wis- 
dom-quest, — 

The strange and cabalistic signs of written speech 
he spelled; 

And thus unlocked his prison house of childish 
things untaught. 

No more his eager face shall seem the same, to 
mine upheld. 

No more his simple faith shall crown the mother's 

realm supreme. 
His restless mind but chafes to soar on flashing 

wing of thought 
And on some splendid mountain peak to wait the 

rising sun, — 
To taste those bitter-sweets, so often dreamed, till 

now unsought. 



1 06 



LOVE'S INQUIRY. 

How does love come, O Dawn ; breaks it with 

splendor -rays, 
Or comes it stealing sense, like paling moon, that 

stays 
One moment lit, and then is ever lost above ? 

How does love come, O Dusk; clasps it the wait- 
ing heart. 

Like wond'rous clouds the night, till dreams at last 
depart, 

And leave our dawn serene, alone, the light of love ? 



107 



THE IRISH PLAYERS. 

A sigh, a tear, a hint of song; 
A bit of wit, a broken heart; 
' Tis but a touch, then ever gone, — 
This gaelic show of dramic art. 

There dwells within their cadenced speech 
Mirage of soul that mocks yet has 
A subtle essence, tears as sweet 
As summer dews upon the grass. 



io8 



SPRING SKIES. 

New eyes, old eyes, 

In both surmise 

That Spring brings each to each 

Its longing wish : What speech 

Declares surprise 

Like these Spring skies ? 



109 



BAFFLED. 

shutters, cease thy wraith of serenade; 

1 cannot sleep, the winds are pained so — 
They find no way to make a lasting end 
Of ghosts, the loves I dreamed so long ago. 



I lO 



HAPPY HILLSIDE. 

Why art thou, Happy Hillside, 

Seeming filled with cheer, 

While Nature planned thee otherwise, a graveyard 

drear — 
Bestrewn with boulders gray, 
Half sunk 'neath winter sod ; 
What awful glacier rites 
Were sung by thee and God ? 

In mantling dusk thy wrinkled face is sad and lone. 
Half lit by censor stars that guard thy ledged throne. 
Thy regal arms in gentle mist are soothed in sleep ; 
Thou knowest well the morning brings glad child- 
ren's feet. 



TO THE CENTURIAN WEATHER VANE 
AT CUTTY HUNK. 

What thou Germanicus ! 

Once famed beyond the Rhine, 

Art thou oppressed this latter day by fears and 

ghosts ? 
Nor stand nor fight these unseen baffling foes of 

thine, 
Alas, they are thine own forgotten idle boasts. 

The long nights through 
Thou servest fateful winds and strive 
To expiate thy boast, an ancient oath I know. 
Poor driven slave ! 
Thou art no longer valiant knight. 
And fretful winds but mock and spurn thee to and 
fro. 



ON LEAVING NEWTOWN ONE GRAY 
DAY IN AUTUMN. 

Who was the jester bold that bid thy folk to crown 

thee New, old town ? 
But hold, lest pain be thine, we pray 
Thy age to be just as thy heart, old yet New-town ! 
Ah, who among thy myriad guests would bid thee 

stay 
The summer's goading sun and winter's fettered 

chill, 
And not to feel the aching tire on service bent. 
The wonder is, thou liest quiet, patient, still, 
Nor heed'st the chilling cold nor winter's discontent. 
Thou art serene, and gladly profFer'st all thy charms 
To those who understand thy staunch and loyal 

heart. 
But now, thy huddled fields and nesting upland 

farms 
Are cloaked in clouds and sadness, weeping as we 

part. 



»i3 



SONG OF THE GRAIN DRILL. 

I drill in fun to thrill 
The grains that run a rill 
So straight, straight as fate, 
Wheat all mixed with rape. 

I laugh until I cry 
When farmers sow their rye, 
Songless they swing and go, 
Tossing seeds to and fro. 



»»+ 



THE SPONGE. 
It shrank from diver's grasp o'erhead 
Whose outstretched hand but tore and rent 
The sponge he sought. He little knew 
He spoiled the wondrous living tent 
That poured the beauteous faunal floor 
Thro' myriad veins for aye and aye. 
No one should judge this rapine less 
Tho' man decrees the sponge to die. 
Its tender pulsing flames, gray-green 
Consume the silver shells and sand ; 
It hopes forever thus to live, 
In teeming depths 'neath coral strand; 
Alas, in alien land to-day 
It lies all blanched and bleached alone. 
Methinks its pouting mouths but pray 
For stormy keyes that sob and moan. 



"5 



THEIR SHOES. 

What quietude befalls thee, empty shoes, 
So primly rowed this night in window bay; 
The first in line hath clasped unhurried feet 
Of her who glides as only goddess may ! 

The second quite as lonely waits the dawn's return, 
To clasp in dear embrace those tender feet of her 
Who dearly loves her pillow's softest down, 
And sweetest scent of rose and blowing fir. 

The third, tho' torn, would burst the stillest night 
To clothe his form in joyous flight or glee. 
Who now asleep, is dreaming big-man's-dream, 
To conquer all his tasks unceasingly. 

Ah ! fourth, thou huddl'st so very near thy mate 
Thou seem'st as his twin sister made — 
Tho' gentler mold already shows the feet 
Of them shall be but part of loveliest maid. 



ii6 



THE PASSING PAGEANTRY OF SPRING. 

Tho' tangled braids of ivy strive to 'slave thy pass- 
ing car, 

Which bears along in rich array the fading flowers 
of Spring, 

A fruiting June at last succeeds and tempts thee on 
and on, 

The while one stranded lover braves thy loss and 
sings and sings. 



117 



THE WRIGHTS. 

"The Wrights have succeeded at last with their latest invent- 
ion, the glider. Yesterday at Kitty Hawk their demonstrations of 
control of the new flying machine without motor was perfect." 

Daily News, Oct. 12, igil. 

With naught save eagle wings they sit 
Or ride the boiling sea of air ; 
At will they glide or climb or dip, — 
What now shall bird-men build or dare .'' 



118 



THE MASTER OF THE CLINIC. 

Not in some far, forgotten time, the primal age. 
When maimed and torn the pack horde ruthless 

circled round 
To note the loss, the havoc wrought; 
Nor still in later age. 
When wars processions made of crippled men and 

youths 
That mocked the brotherhood of man. 
No, not yet has storied picture shown the scene 

depicted here. 
In serried rank on rank the students silent sit 
About the Master, who to-day shall give 
Discourse on ever growing miracles of life and death ; 
His is a sacred task, not one that boasts 
A full or free divorce from touch of secret thought 
Of woe and pain entailed on humankind. 
With stilled hand he yet shall search and find 
The hidden flaw in Life's derailments, wrecks. 
With patient skill he strives to build anew 
The rift of dawn, all riven now in stooped Atlas 

there. 
Whose knotted brow of pain but cries revenge 
On those who pitted him against unequal tasks. 
In this machine-made age. 
As much to him as you or me 
The piteous clutch of childish hand 
On mother breast as some new palsied sign is shown- 
Think you the mother fails to note 
119 



The Master hand that guides that sadly labored 

gait? — 
The childish cry betrays no jester's limp. 
And see, with even gentler hand he strives to lift 

the mask 
Of mental death from her who sits forlorn, 
Whose soul has lost the road of life. 
And through whose listless hands there idly slips 
The sands of Time and Fate. 
Who knows but that his gentlest wisdom 
Yet may find that buried trail to larger hope 
And dearer happiness, once lost through pain. 
' Tis this and more beshows the Master Mind, 

which. 
While no whit less keen, has felt the touch 
Of common lot. To him the vision, task divine, 
To thread the tangled darks of mind and soul. 
Relight its hopes, and build anew within. 



1 20 



THE CHILDLESS. 

O Lord, thy pardon, pray ! 

We've erred throughout the ages gone, 

We've stood like empty urns, unfilled, unblessed ; 

Ours not like mother earth whose mighty quern 

Hath borne the burden of worlds before and after, 

end on end. 
We, listless, to and fro like idle tides stay waiting, 
Waiting some release, surcease of heart-ache here. 
May thou, O merciful God break down the door 
Of our dead prison house — 
Strike with blinding light if thou must. 
But kindle thou the fire we, thoughtless, 
Smothered in our breasts. 
Yea, bend and break us on the wheel of life, 
But give us life, life to suffer and to pray. 
Give us little hands that err, 
Little feet of roseate dawn to kiss 
With lips that bless, that fend the thorns 
In paths that all must tread. 
Ah, when lavendered time shall press us back — 
Back into ages lost and gone. 
Then shall no heart-ache unrequited be, 
For we shall know Thy works and faith were ne'er 
From us, the least of thine, withdrawn. 



121 



THE BLIND MAN. 
Remoteness in his patient face I sense and feel, 
Somehow his soul seems free from things we hope 

and fear. 
Yet ask I, saddened, where his greatest sorrow 

dwells, 
" Alas," he sighs, " I never see a smile nor tear." 



THE FORBIDDEN GUEST. 

Strange silence reigned throughout the gay and 

spacious 
Halls of nights and dreams ; 

The revel on, the tide of sleep bore in my guests ; 
Each gave a courteous nod to him, my censor. 
Sent to guard the jealous gates of wakefulness. 
Approved, each masquer took appointed place; 
But one there was who sought admittance ; 
Mask nor other guise he wore. 
With strange malevolence and hate the censor bade 

him go, 
Return no more, though he hurled back a threat of 

sure return. 
Soon fresh arrivals stole the censor's eye and watch- 
fulness. 
Then enters he of glad familiar speech, 
Methought him clever, gayer than all other guests ; 
The censor spoke him gracious, fair, 
And gave him right of place, high honors in such 

revelry of sleep 
And dreams. Perplexed, all sought this masquer's 

guise removed 
To learn the name of one possessed 
Beyond all else such fascination rare. 
Unmasked, all revel ceased ; a conflict took its place; 
The censor beat his hands, unbound the doors of 

wakefulness. 
Behold, the mystery ceased. Forbidden guest 

assumed the mask. 
My favorite sin, a secret wish of waking hours. 
123 



THE PARALYTIC. 

Fettered and bound by unseen powers 

He waits his fate, 

Disease has hurled this shape aside and built the 

race; 
His huddled form may feel no thrill of childish play, 
His twilight mind betrays no hope in sodden face. 

For him there's never been a thirsting goal by day. 
Nor eager dream of joy or song in fancied flight. 
The hurrying feet but mock his stark misshapen 

limbs; 
O Thou with Touch Divine, reclaim his hapless 

plight ! 

Thy magic art is born again for all mankind, 
The palsied pains of tensed nerves are loosed away; 
A skillful hand once more fulfills Thy healing task; 
Behold ! the Dawn is here, 

The wonder-working day. 



24 



PANTHEISM. 

The spirit of revolt is in my blood, 

All sects, all schools, all systems clog my brain ; 

I know not shall I weave the tissued web 

Of wisdom quest; I would back home again; — 

On mountain tops, where silence ling'ring lies. 
Where great crags gaze and gaze in splendid skies, — 
Where dawn yet breaks and breaks with glad sur- 
prise 
To touch our day of ancient sacrifice. 

Ah, there alone with God and olden kin 
Shall I breathe free at last this modern sin — 
This sin to know His infinite plan and way ; 
O God, receive my soul, and let me pray. 



IZJ 



APRIL LIGHTS. 

To-day the winds in woods sing long 

A rustling song; 

To which the April clouds march by, 

Afloat so high, 

That sunlit spots on meadow low 

Flash all aglow; 

And shadows softly glide behind. 

Adrift the wind. 

The merry chase which light leads shade 

O'er field and glade, 

Makes trees alight with sunny smile, 

Awatch the while 

They sadly find no slack of pace 

Nor end of race; 

So all the day fast runs the light 

Until — the night. 



126 



TO 

In bitterness he rued the day he held the power 

To build that larger mansion of the mindj 

He fought the little things, the lesser tasks which 
lesser men 

Might gain, nor saw how justice toiled 

His splendid sacrifice and pain. 

Lo, now his contrite heart seeks out the darkening 
path alone. 

Though other hands shall bear the torch and flam- 
ing sword 

And conquer thus, to him the vision came too late ; 

A pitying God through endless crucifixion builds 
fraternal state, 

Though social justice surely comes, 

It slowly shapes its toiling ends. 



127 



THE MISSISSIPPI VALLEY. 

O valley of the quick and dead ! O Mother Earth, 

Thy womb contains desires unguessed; 

Thou art the gentle winding sheet 

Of stilled feet of ages past 

That now lie fast asleep in thy scrolled lap of marl. 

O fertile plain beyond, 

That yearns and ever hopes that men may read 

Thy published faith and birth ! 

O, thou emancipated one, 

Give us thy freedom, peace, thy sense of majesty 

Unbounded by sea or cloud or swifting wing of 

wind. 
To thee, and thy vastness wide, 
O valley, I would build my song. 



128 



TO EDWIN MARKHAM. 

As dawn's mysterious stir 
In bush or blowing fir 
Awakes the trilling wren 
To voice his melody; 
So may some power divine 
Still urge thy pen and line 
To lift the hearts of men 
To high born destiny. 



129 



THE SEEKER. 

O thou madonna of the world, we know thy 

mother shrine is lone, 
And sense thy fear at desolate dawn and dusk ; 
And yet we pray a pity on thy sons, who, quite 
Bewildered, fareth forth their lonely way. 
Ah, mark they peer in weed and flower. 
And tremble lest they never more shall find 
Another one by half so sweet or true as thee. 
Compassion all their search, for they but seek 
Thee glorified, within some maiden fair. 



130 



THE AFTERMATH. 

Through tortuous pathways run 

The liberties of men ; 
For hope a Brutus stabs, 

For faith a Corday slays ; 
And now Bogroff strikes out 

The life of Stolypin ! 

The avenging soul stands dumb 

And breasts the awful wrath; 
Why not the torch to better paths and firmer hands? 
And then the free may reap no dreadful aftermath. 



131 



MOTHER TO HER SON. 
A pagan heart still beats within my breast, 
Tho' cloaked without by faith of latter day; 
I see myself an image in thy soul, 
Before whose shrine thou kneel'st in grace alway ; 
And thus I die content ; content I die. 

Beset with strife the years shall come and go. 
Yet I shall mark the shrined hours alone, 
An idol scarcely known, remembered less 
By name than music's sweetest monotone ; 
And thus I die content ; content I die. 

Search thou that other key another holds. 
Who hath some touch of me, of grace or hand. 
And hold her fast as shipwrecked soul adrift 
Whose hope revives at touch of saving land; 
And thus I die content ; content I die. 

At last together may we serve thy soul. 
Our loves the same tho' mine be unrevealed ; 
Some subtle power hath willed this mother-love 
To serve the world till all mankind be healed ; 
And thus I die content; content I die. 



132 



AN OLD, OLD MAN. 
A saddened sense of loneliness now falls aslant his path! 
It seems akin to that which comes to those made 

sudden deaf, 
Ever the haunting hush and wait for sound of aery 

rippling mirth 
And shout of youth which never comes. 
The fire of life is gone, the heart is cold. 
The ashen silence crumbles, mocks and taunts and 

pains ! — 
What is this strange disease that claims his soul, 
And makes of him a deadened image-man, who sits 

by empty hearth. 
Tolling beads, the months of warmth, of summers 

gone beyond recall ? 

Ah, note his sigh each time he stirs from doze and sleep; 
His dreams are best; more real than day. 
Drawn out illimitable store of childhood's dower. 
Thus recompensed they make much less his loss 
And soften touch of harsher thought of latter day. 
A glance beshows how much remoteness claims his 

face and mind, — 
The loosening masque of life. His form no longer 

frets its moorings here. 
Its God-like patience waits the end which slowly wraps 
Mysterious vestments 'bout his form. 
Whose ghostly wrappings make him seem like one 

already dead. 
»33 



A MODERN SACRIFICE. 

Men marvelled at the ways of separateness 
Her work and life had led. One moment now 
She paused, while shouts of wild acclaim arose 
On every hand, as she made some new sacrifice for 

humankind. 
Her soul became oppressed, eclipsed by sudden 

cloud. 
Disturbed by haunting memories hid. 
A strange sirocco wind had touched 
The lambient fringe of consciousness 
And framed emotions hidden there, so ancient, 

long repressed. 
That pitying tear refused to free them now 
From pain, or take away their buried thorn within. 

What was the vision rare that fired this train of 

thought ? 
Removed a little way from where she stood 
She saw a woman fair in shadowed nook 
With arms about her child held mother-wise; 
The midday croon had trilled away in 
Silence now ; the babe was fast asleep. 
And yet the mother sat in reverie's swoon, 
While here and there about her drowsing child 
The honey bees caught up the tone of vanquished 

lullaby 
And sang it o'er and o'er to charm the late autum- 
nal flower, — 

»34 



Still on their thieving mission bent. 

The vision passed ; that other self she might have 

been 
Once more its place resumed, to sublimate her daily 

task, 
And yet her face bore battle stains which time nor 

rich fulfilment 
Ne'er could change. 

Afar, the loud applause tenfold increased ; 
One voice insistent called again and yet again, — 
It drave behind her mask ; reiteration mad 
Compelled reply, — if she had not received 
Reward for all in all ? — 
She slowly turned her face, resigned ; 
Withdrew her soul's concern from drowsy bliss, — 
But now so near and yet so far removed. 
And, while her priceless honors slipped unheeded to 

the ground, she sighed, 
" Ah, no, not quite, not quite ! " 



135 



THE BEGINNINGS OF MIND. 

(Rodin, "The Thinker.") 
We, thy brawn — mute and willing slaves, 
Have served thee ages long and well, 

O Master- Man! 
To-day a phosphored cell has taken sway, 
And thou shalt lose the way of action, man of 

might — 
Stopped by evanescent gleam of thought. 
Whose glowworm light within thy templ'd walls 

and dome 
Hath snared thy play of muscle, 
Shuttling tt> and fro beneath thy supple skin. Thy 

loom is still; 
Its cadenced rhythm, dear to youth and life, is gone. 
Sadly it waits the call, the beck, the nod 
Of that which thou hast throned to-day. 
Stupendous task no more is theirs. 
Thy sinuous strands ; gone is simple plan and guide 
By instinct ruled, the sovereign sway for all that 

creep or crawl. 

Lo, now, enkindled thought shall light the path, 
Or in the dusk, or 'ere the dawn, make darkness 

seem the darker still. 
And more ; in wavering light of reason, ages hence, 
New terror shall be added, lest thou lose the path 

outright. 
No primal way may guide thee there, 

136 



A nameless dread shall seize thy soul ; 

An ague fit may lie within thy frame, 

Each sinew strive to rend in muted strife, 

The more the fear because 'tis mute and strange. 

Before unmastered thought seeps through my soul, 

Remember thou didst lie in comfort sweet; 

The hooded day wert for thy rest and sleep. 

Thy nights henceforth shall strangely peopled be. 

In retrospect thy toiling path to steep ascent 

Shall be a mocking fear 

Lest thou shalt fall to greater depth in crevass'd 

life. 
All joys and hopes shall now confounded be, 
By vexing vortexed thoughts which are the slag and 

waste 
Of warring hates and loves. 

All, all shall be requited thee, both ill and good; 
For thou this day hath willed new gods to reign 

within. 
And they, as gods of latter day, obey the Fateful 

One, 
The everlasting god, — Desire! 



>37 



THE RIGHT OF WAY. 

(After the Titanic Disaster). 
Make way, make way, ye simple men who sail 
The great gray wandering sea ! The tropics call ; 
Ihe south winds sigh, for Norse gods ride the 

main to-day. 
Where to, ye mariners, who dare to cross the 

path, — 
The path, the right of way, forbid of mortal men ? 

Beware, beware, those gods may take an awful toll 
Of thee and me, so sail not down athwart their way. 
For tropics call ; the south winds sigh 
As gulf stream curls its ribbon blue 
About some isle, a far off trysting goal. 

From grinding floe the ice gods break their anchors 

free 
And ride and ride their mighty line 
By misty day and through the star-fed night. 
Hark to the tropics' call and the south wind's sigh. 
For one lone leader guides the way. 

None may live and cross this path to southern sea. 
Nor day nor night shall rest abide 
Until the tropics call and south winds sigh no more. 
So back, stand back, ye million footed things that 

creep, 
Alight with life and glowworm fire, across the vasty 

deep, 

•38 



Whose thrumming noise awakes the night and 

chilly stars, — 
To-night the Norse gods haste to tropics' call, 
And sail their goal the while. 

None may sense the depth of pressured fire 

That brilliant burns in morning sun, or dully glows 

On sapphire seas 'neath moonlight pale from wond- 

'rous skies, 
Ah, see that prisoned soul would burst its bonds 
To seek and find the warmth yet death in southern 

seas ! 

So back, sail back, ye puny men, for tropics call 
And south winds sigh for giant bergs that haste 
Away to trysting place, 'neath southern cross 
That lures and burns, o'er laughing eyes in emerald 
seas. 

Once more and yet again ye sailor-men 

Keep clear the path of mountain ice that forges on 

and on. 
Until the waiting arms of southern sea 
Shall hold its lover's form in life and death again. 



•39 



AWAITING EXECUTION. 

Beyond my circled light, this brief and saddened 

day, 
Strange shapes move everywhere in darkness and in 

fear; 
What blighting paths they tread, of woe, of sin and 

clay! 
Ah, would their mocking jibe and jest I could not 

hear! 

I feel a nameless chilling dread as time draws nigh ; 

Who says God's mercy bars the truth ? 
The light, I ask. 

And now my dream dissolves, like mists in morn- 
ing sky ; 

Behold, I am that ancient host, — I block the past. 

My shipwrecked soul from first was doomed, in 

madness dyed, 
I swear at last the cursed strain shall make its ends ; 
Yet their's the debt, and mine's to pay the cost, 

world-wide ; 
Just men one day shall charge my crime as God 

intends. 



140 



A SPIRIT BROODS ON THE SEA. 

The restless waves like peevish children toss 

As day recedes from moving seas ; 

What is this quietude that comes with purple mists, 

descends unseen ? 
* Tis like unto the gentle mystic hand of God 
That understands, and cares, and frees. 



141 



A DREAM OF THE MOTHER LIFE. 

(The Inner Self Revealed.) 

What baffling, horrid jest is this, 

Which I must ever strive to solve ? 

Perplexing dream, make end thy awful clutch on 
soul and brain ! 

This wall would seeming fall and I must strive 

To force it back again. 

So long the day I scarce remember dawn did break. 

And yet the dawn did pitiless move the scene and 
act ; 

Its light revealed a falling wall, whose heaving 
swell and rack 

I alone must stay, must press it back to place. 

Far nether side of conscious mind I sense the Sam- 
son sin 

Which I must expiate; must stay the temple's fall. 

And yet my inner self beshews less ancient store 

Whose haunting call invites and thralls my sleeping 
hours. 

* Tis this adown the corridor of years. 

Yea, back of childish things which I remember first, 
the primal fault. 

Behold, I lie in vaulted room that snugly folds me 
bout. 

The dome the smaller as I the larger grow. 

O ! thou unequal Task. Through travail, pain, 

And smothered gasp for breath, I nerveless, van- 
quished He. 

142 



I'm forced without against my wish, and full, free 

conscious life begins. 
Expelled from Eden's bower I find my way about 
In garish, stubborn world of day. 
And yet in many a fancied dream awake or asleep I 

would return ; 
A coward wish I know ; still seek I everywhere 
The vaulted dome and place of peace and ease, 
So effortless that ease that even slothful sleep is 

painful toil compared. 
All this and more is now to me revealed in inner 

life and wish ; 
A skilful hand hath drawn it thread by thread from 

fabric of my dreams. 
Distempered mind no longer drives me to its Atlas 

task ; 
I sink to sleep aware that waking dawn shall never 

more a tragic terror 
Hold ; I am unto my primal self revealed. 
Which self was long estranged behind a screen of 

wish for mother life. 



'43 



A NIGHT AT ST. HELENA. 

Without, the star fed night is glad ; within, thy soul 

is faint with tears; 
What strange spell bids thee pause, O lonely soul, 

to reckon all the years ? 
What haunting memories rise, o'erweening pride of 

battles fought and won ? 
Thou livest on while all thy marshals brave have 

passed from light of sun. 

Alone thou challenged all the nations far and near 

to serve thy will, 
So, why repine on northern shores, of life thou 

hadst thy sated fill ; 
What end the toiling thou thyself conditioned Fate 

and lost at last ? 
' Ere yet the biting thongs of time and age had 

hurled thee bound and fast. 

Thy age-long battle cries are gone, forever now a 
mocking taunt. 

Thou art a vanquished age of force, what of thy fear- 
ful power and vaunt ? 

Gone, gone to pave the way of peaceful state, but 
now the hope of man ; 

Ah, bitter thought ! thou served so small a part 
within so great a plan. 



144 



A GRAY DAY IN AUTUMN. 
Drip, dripping, drip. 
The rain ne'er ceases trip. 
Tripping down my window pane. 

Rasp, rasping, rasp. 

The maple's ghostly grasp. 

Striving, clasps my roof in vain. 

Blow, blowing, blow. 
The lonely winds sing low 
A song of sad refrain. 

Drip, dripping, drip. 
The rain ne'er ceases trip. 
Tripping down my window pane. 



H5 



CHORUS OF THE BUMBLE BEES' SONG. 
Oh, let us be, 
Oh, let us be, 
Sun worshipers we. 
Disturb not our homes, 
Lowly folk, no drones. 
So, let us be. 
So, let us be. 
Sun worshipers we. 



146 



THE ABANDONED HOUSE. 

Thou art no longer home, thou age-worn weary urn, 
Thy moss grown steps have lost their trace of 

human tread, 
And night winds sigh and moan the winter's drear 

return ; 
Unsheltered bats and mice complain and cry unfed. 

How strange it seems, thou once did shelter youth 

and age ; 
Perchance slow time may so reward thy patience 

rare 
That trembling hands may seek thy heart's sad 

heritage. 
Or absent lord shall memory yield in silent prayer. 

For children wander far and seeming lose their way ; 
When fragrant thought as some sweet lilac bloom is 

sent, 
To wake the soul that dreams, to think of home 

alway. 
And thus God's purpose all in tenderness is blent. 



147 



ELEANOR, THE ELUSIVE. 

Half revealed, half concealed 'neath apple trees her 

shining hair 
Ensnares the precious light of day and sheds it 

everywhere. 
As jeweled dawn defies and then dispels the subtle 

dews, 
So rippling joyous laugh of her despairs my baffled 

muse. 



148 



KATHLEEN AND THE BUTTERFLY. 

What forms of gentle grace astir are these, 
That float and drift the greening springtide down ; 
An instant's pause they give to flowers and trees, 
And then afield they fare, like thistle-down. 



149 



THE BUTTERCUP. 

O Buttercup, 

Just opening up ! 
Whence comes thy sheen 

And golden green ? 

' Tis sun and moon. 
And waxen noon, 

From melting pot 

So scorching hot, 

That He let drop. 

That He let drop. 



ISO 



MARGARET AND THE WHITE BIRCH. 

O beauteous birch awhirl the autumn wind, 
Thou hast no whit more grace nor poise of head 
Than she who stands beneath thy flamelets pale 
And spins her fairy dreams with purple thread. 



151 



BROTHERS TO THE BLOOD. 

Now freed from dreams 

Of blinding lust in outraged kill, 

Disgust and shame 

Suffused his waking mind ; 

A twilight state 

Revealed his memory filled and stored 

With loves and hates, 

The wish and shield of humankind. 

He little knew 

The dream source was far derived. 

Its power alone he knew, 

A kinship half descried. 

See, the cave man's cruel visage 

Leers so very near, 

Alas, so small the gain, 

Though centuries of time divide. 



15a 



THE LOOM OF LIFE. 

Amid the whirr of mill, — 

The beat and throb of spinning loom, 

A slender, graceless girl 

One moment paused, to lovelessness unreconciled. 

She saw dim visions rise and pass her by ; 

A playmate stole her place. 

Now bitterness replaces love 

Because a cheat beguiled. 

Though sallow look forsake 

Her cheek, no fruiting bloom succeeds; 

The mocking loom unheeding weaves 

Its pattern, dire as Fate. 

Likewise her soul, forlorn. 

Its fabric stamps, — though none may see — 

' Tis writ therein ; its watermark 

Reveals — too late, too late. 



»53 



IN MEMORIAM. 

TO 

But yesterday the glinting sunlight was upon his 

limbs, 
For him the fields and flowers were songs by elder 

ears unheard; 
In slumber long, an effulgent glow of stilled beauty 

beat 
About his form, a portent of a pent-up childish glee. 
Some secret hand of fearful pall was laid too heavily 
Upon this thrush of life's sweet symphony, and now 

no more 
Such songs are sung. The palsied flood of dreadful 

power 
Poured thro' each tiny vein ; a marble stillness lay 
Upon his limbs. For one brief day 
This youthful morning glory kissed the dawn, 
And passed to other gardens rare beyond our ken 

Lo ! What to us the rift of dawn, or song of 
Pleiades ? 

His life is but a golden memory. 

No more is heard the sweet reverberation of a 
stormy May of youth; 

The tragrance from this strange sweet-scented man- 
uscript is lost, 

Nor may its pages be unrolled again with hope or joy. 

Slow time may find some surgery to heal the mind 
bereaved, 

»54 



But now the days are drear and desolate ; we grieve 

and grieve ! 
And still, who would have bid him stay, with sadly 

labored gait, — 
Never to know again the joys and dreams of childish 

flight ? 

" But think of him, ye young companions bright, 
Not without joy, for he hath loved and gone. 
As dews on uplands shine and go." 



155 



TO ROSE. 
From bitterest griefs thou coin'st so gay a mirth 
I marvel at thy minting art ; 
What magic skill hast thou, or is't but coined 
From rarest mold thine eager heart? 



156 



EGYPT. 

Snatched back from thy ever ready maw, O Sea ! 
Still thy silt I keep to fashion my belt of green, 
At the Judgment shall I sit at thy feet, humbled, 
Surrender all my gates and pyramids to thee. 



157 



THE. HARVEST MOON. 
In the early quiet night her suitor Moon comes up — 
A luminous round rim, bright vestured, a courtier 

grown, 
No glance he pays to virgin hills paled in mantled 

mists. 
His court is for the Queen of Night on her zenith 

throne. 



158 



THE ANARCHIST. 

forger of hate and the ever rending bomb, 

1 touch thy ready hands, so swift to hurl and die. 
Are none to understand, forgive thy terrored rage ? 
A stifled death alone awaits thy agelong cry. 

Thy soul was born to world of love, yet so denied 
Its seeds, that none took root thy natal day ; 
So thy harvest is to be as one starved outright. 
O primal heat, behold, the stubborn flaw in clay ! 



159 



THE BLACK CELL. 

In thy deadly keep for a space the heart of man 
lies down, 

Thou mayest seem the strong oppressor of a hateful 
crime, — 

And yet, thy grating no sooner sets firm in noise- 
some frown 

Than man's other soul soars away unmindful of all 
time. 



1 60 



TO AN IMPRISONED STEEL WORKER. 

True a Frankenstein hast thou made, from the travail 

of birth 
Thou forged it; in the thunder smoke of the furnace 

shaped it ; 
And now in cold bars of steel, not for the temple 

thou dreamed, — 
But for making this grim gray monster in which thy 

wits fit. 



i6i 



THE HOUSE WREN. 

Ah, thou wee prank of life and light, whitherward 

blown 
Out of the Southland ? Thou brought us so short a 

note 
From a rich sheaf of song, — all frayed at the end, 

too — 
Pray bring next a stout sunbeam, this breaks in thy 

throat. 



162 



A COMMON HERITAGE. 
Till yesterday I thought I should be one with the 

ages yet to come, 
Now I have breasted my little hill of time, my little 

span of years. 
And lo ! I see the endless rise of far hills on other 

hills beyond, — 
So from this day I shall spend my steps so miserly 

with hosts of fears ! 



163 



THE DEVIL'S CURSE. 

The penalty of gifts returned is not too dear — 
And yet, possession of this glad world 
Would make love with venom ranged. 
Cry on, ye blind beggar'd earth awhirl 
In travail of birth ! Millions yet unborn 
Shall reckon my curse. The dice are changed ! 



164 



DESOLATE. 

The waving penants of a wayward wind are now 

withdrawn, 
The trees stand still in early dusk, lament their 

sudden loss ; 
Quite comfortless they mourn the lowly grasses from 

the lawn 
Which wily farms gathered in and laid the mow 

across. 



165 



BISCAYAN BAY. 

A shimmering ripple of light is stayed ! 
Here pink, there a rose heart lies ; spent dawn 
Tints the reef. Who builded the simple glade 
That waves its scrolled blade but half withdrawn ? 

Ah wond'rous southern skies, beneath ypn cup 
An alchemist works. — Stay one moment now — 
For the dusky hand of the night puts up 
And sets one star upon the lighthouse brow. 



1 66 



POEMS: MINE AND THINE. 
Poor lone waifs crowded on the street to greet the 

passerby, 
To ask one idle reader more to take us up before we 

die, 
Like a Rip Van Winkle's unslaked thirst, perpetual 

sun 
Within us pleads for one ever after another one. 



167 



THE TREE TOADS. 

Strumming their chords that make no music now, 
A relic of an age when men crouched, clung 
To bough and branch and passed the night in dread. 
Lest some great monster-claw was sudden flung, 
Upcleaving the dark, snatched a life o'erhead. 
Or some horrid sinuous thing laid fold 
On fold and drove its poison fangs so deep 
That thrice-told tales lie in the arms of sleep. 
Thus the last of the tree-men sing so bold. 



i68 



A GREETING. 
Out of the radiant morning sky, like a gift, 
A butterfly floats down. Ah, see its wings unfold 
As it seeks the yellow rose, blown by winds unseen ; 
Now it nests its petaled wings in a heart of gold. 



169 



A MAIDEN. 
To S. H. 

She is the radiant morn, risen from the dead earth — 
Deep from a night of ooze, an orchid rare, she leans 
Upon the air, drowsy yet from the bliss of birth , 
And greets the long expectant hour of summer 
dreams. 



170 



A MIRAGE. 
Hate had sat so long upon his massive brow, 
Its coronal so weighted down his dulled eyes, 
His soul had ceased to thrill with the glad surprise 
That comes from nether worlds at the break of dawn. 
Yet behold, a fairy child upon the lawn — 

His lost youth it is, and, reincarnate brings 

Back to him once more the wide-eyed wond'ring 

things. 
Mad with passioned love, he strives to grasp it 

there, — 
Vanished the ghostly wraith, lost upon the air, 
Leaving him with taunts and cries of world despair. 



171 



THE JAIL. 

From dun gray walls, quarried in bitter hate, there 

leers and peers the common woe 
Of unrepentant man ; lost in a frenzied madness of 

the soul upcaught 
By the whirl of the grinding stone. Shall man this 

latter day undo it ? No ! 
Back through the long ages the penalty was laid ; 

shall it now come to naught? 



172 



THE JAILER. 

The one within his keep still has some comfort 

none may take away, 
For he, in a merry fling of dice was a real god one 

brief day — 
And now he nurses rage and hate that steels his 

heart against the law. 
Whereas the prisoned jailer has little else than a soul 

of straw. 



*73 



THE CRIPPLE. 

I would not cheat at games, 
Nor would I overstay, 
But God has not played fair, — 
He has not let me play. 

In rigid casements fast, 
So sad I lie to-day; 
I long, I wait, I hope, 
But God won't let me play ! 

With lifted shout in sports 
My playmates pause and say, 
" Why is his heart so gay 
When God won't let him play ? 

As He upon the cross 
I bear my pain and pray — 
Made bitter is the thought 
That God won't let me play ! 

In long eternity 

Shall I the chance, O pray, — 

Say truly, 'ere I go. 

Shall God then let me play ? 



174 



A HONEYSUCKLE. 
Hast thou ne'er glanced in the soft radiant light 
That nestles in a golden chalice, and thus 
Seen its very pristine colors madly whirl ? 
Ah so! thou hast seen love in the heart of a girl. 



175 



UNREQUITED. 

My robin with a sudden apprehension of the sun 
Wakes the cool September dawn, and in both our 

hearts there sings 
The hope of an olden gladness, of half remembered 

things — 
One thrill of madness, then, a sadness for the goal's 

not won. 

Ah, whither shall our questing hearts seek out that 
other Spring — 

Thro' supernal pall of frost which grips the unre- 
lenting ground, 

And, in pale March renew the search for Springs 
o'erpassed ? Our wound 

Unhealed from ever asking; shall we always bear 
the sting? 



176 



STRIFE AND SONG. 

Though some stray rivulet newly run 
Unceasing frets, complains of stone and clod, 
It finds at last its rhythmic flow — 
The subtle music in the law of God. 



177 



THE LYRICIST. 

Nay, he builded no enduring state, ne'er turned a 

river from its bed, 
Nor added even one small jot to science, or spun a 

cosmic thread, 
Yet did he see a vision in the realm where spirit 

dwells, drew the bow 
And made my blood for ever course the faster, 

taught my soul its overflow. 



178 



HOW LOVE DIES. 

One may search long to find just how love dies, — 
'Tis not burnt to ash in a night's content, 
Nor does it die thro' one long waiting day 
When both life and death pass, unheeding blent. 

Not so does love die; too subtle the search — 

Secure thro' corridors of time it flies 

Until the lover cold averts his eyes, 

And there, behind the soul-mask chilled, love dies. 



179 



THE SIGN POST OF LIFE. 

Some measure of the thing he loved he built in 

verse, 
And left it hanging there to light the dreary way ; 
But many a traveler passed it, — not knowing love 
They blindly took the lonely road of yesterday. 



THE LONE WOLF. 

A shivering star above the nesting dorf, 
And he, on the hill-brow a moment pauses — 
Waiting till one more spark of life, unrequited 
Takes its toll. 

Ah then, what then the lot of his rav'ning soul. 
Shall the frost, dumb biting in the still night cold, 
Sink deep its palsied way, and thus uninvited 
Reach its goal ? 



i8i 



LOVE'S MESSAGE. 

All balms ministrant, and still his eyes ne'er closed, 
Thro' his brain many a pain and sorrow crept; 
But dawn sent a roseleaf to his window pane, 
All dripping with the dew of love — and he slept. 



THE EGOTIST. 

Not e'en caring what the magic stars say, each to 

each, 
Nor how the over-lord Sun swings to his western 

goal. 
On and on rings the babbling echo of his own speech 
Between silent walls, the blind galleries of his soul. 



183 



THE HOUSE OF INVENTION. 

Not amid the sacred silence of the mountain wold, 
Nor yet out of the great pathless wandering sea — 
But in cities of love and hate, throes that life enfold, 
Finds he the key which opes a world of mystery. 



184 



A SPHYNX. 

Who shall make rotund the void of loneliness, — 
Fill its empty ache, pay its memory-dues ? 
Thou, Silence, art the one ; thou hast dreary nights 
That bear tales of incommunicable news ! 



185 



THE UPLAND MEADOW. 

Thou gray spurned sod, 

Can ye lift a flower to God — 
In some far day, 

Shall ye boast a fragant sweet spray. 
Lilting spring songs. 

Beguiling to rest the bird throngs ? 



1 86 



FATE. 

"Ah yet a little while wait thou, fair maid," 
So teased the spinning wheel and she obeyed. 
The loom, too, begged for one dear fabric more. 
It said, "Youth hath but left thee at the door." 

Swift shuttled Time the seasons through, and vast 
Oblivion gulfed her hopes ; the days o'erpast 
Brought their age : The sad light revealed one morn 
How cheating mill had slain her babes unborn. 



187 



AN INQUIRY. 
Oh nesting birds blown south and back again, 
How do you search the air lanes out, 
Or ride the boiling sea of air, 
Do you leave floating buoys of song about ? 



i88 



TO SWEN HEDIN'S "LEADER OF 

THE CARAVAN IN THE 

DESERT OF GOBI." 

His eye toward the marginal rim of the sand sea, 
In him the grim desert waste, its unwearying breath 
To baffle. He measures its bound of power to slay, 
And now, like some pagan old, he moves on to 
meet death. 



189 



"AND YET FOR A TIME, " 

His desk and lamp wait 

Through the ineffable long years — 
Theirs the patience of the oak and iron, 
But our hearts grieve, 

And our eyes have grown so blind with misty 
tears ! 

"Ah, Merciful God, why hast thou left his spirit 
here 
To mock our wayward mood and fretting 
word? 
Take it all, dear God, — 
The silence and the desolate wind." 

^^ Yet for a little time and I shall" He answered. 



190 



CONTENTS 

Page 

New York, 3 A. M. - - - 10 

La Melancholia - - - 11 

Rain on Taunton Lake - - 12 

Life ----- 13 

Courage - - - - 14 

A Morning Phantasy - - 15 

The Motor Boat - . - - 16 

The Cry of the Snows - - 17 

Death - - - - 18 

Illness - - - - 19 

A Reproach - - - 20 

Convalescence - - - 21 

The Dreamer - - - 22 

One Night - - - - 23 

The Sunken Island - - - 24 

A Memory - - - - 25 

March in April - - - 26 

The Poet - - - - 27 

Moods - - - - 28 

The Sun God - - - - 29 

The Night Born - - - 30 

Intramural - - - - 31 

MoNA Lisa - - - - 32 

A Boy - - - - 33 



Page 

The Gift That Failed - - 34 

Processional - - - - 2S 

A Wayside Mood - - - 3^ 

Socialism - - - - 37 

The Poets - - - - 38 

Impudence - - - - 39 

Goldenrod _ - - - 40 

A Christmas Jingle - - - 41 

The Spenders and Misers - - 42 

Autumn - - - - 43 

Conservation - - - - 44 

O Hush! - - - - 45 

Inconstancy - - - - 46 

The Cry of Dawn - - - 47 

An Echo - - " - - 48 

The Nuns _ _ . _ 49 

Tardiness - - - - 50 

The Pardoned - - - 51 

Unnatural History - - - 52 

The Immutable - - - S3 

Rare Ripes - - - - 54 

The Dying Pagan - - - 56 

Paresis - - - - 58 

Ysaye's Art - - - - S9 

The Conflict - - - - 60 

An Epileptic Crisis - - - 61 

Dusk Song - - - - 62 

His Ideal - - - - 63 



Page 

The Slave - - - - 64 

Love ----- 65 

To Rodin's "Face" - - 66 

To L. L. E. - - - - 67 

Priest in Confessional - - 68 

Sympathy - - - - 69 

To Madam P. B. - - - 70 

God's Fool _ - - - 71 

The Bellevue Morgue - - 72 

The Vestal Pigeohs - - - 73 

The Sea Gulls - - - 74 

John Masefield - - ~ 75 

The Quest - - - - 76 

An Ancient Cry - - - 77 

The Status - - - 78 

The Flower Artificers - - 79 

A Storm Dog _ _ _ 80 

To A Raven - - - - 81 

A Northern God - - - 82 

A Sunset Bird - - - 83 

To Carducci - - - - 84 

A Word to the Wise - - 85 

A Spring Bacchanal - - - 86 

The Autumn Spinner - - 87 

The Paranoiac - - - 88 

Conscience _ , - - 89 

The Feud _ - - - 90 

The Snow Image _ _ _ 91 



Page 



The Sybarite - - - - 
Twilight of the Soul 

The Purple Gentian - - - 
The Maternal Marshes 
The Psychiatric Clinic 

Beyond Price - - - - 

The First Music _ _ _ 

An April Frost _ _ _ 

To Hilltop _ - _ _ 

The Stethoscope _ _ _ 

August Fields _ _ _ 

Earliest Spring _ _ _ 

Unmasked _ _ _ _ 

The Psychoanalyst _ _ _ 
The Indian Mother's Lament 

Love's Inquiry _ _ _ 

The Irish Players _ _ _ 

Spring Skies - _ _ _ 

Baffled _ _ _ _ 

Happy Hillside _ _ _ 
To THE Centurian Weather Vane at 

Cutty Hunk _ _ _ 
On Leaving Newton one Gray Day in 

Autumn - - . - 
Song of the Grain Drill 

The Sponge _ _ _ _ 

Their Shoes _ _ _ _ 
The Passing Pageantry of Spring 



92 

93 
94 

95 
96 

97 
98 

99 
100 

lOI 

102 
103 
104 
105 
106 
107 
108 
109 
no 
III 

112 

114 

"5 
116 

117 



The Wrights _ - - 

The Master of the Clinic 

The Childless 

The Blind Man 

The Forbidden Guest 

The Paralytic 

Pantheism _ _ _ 

April Lights _ _ _ 

To 

The Mississippi Valley 

To Edwin Markham - 

The Seeker . _ _ 

The Aftermath 

Mother to Her Son 

An Old, Old Man 

A Modern Sacrifice 

The Beginnings of Mind 

The Right of Way 

Awaiting Execution 

A Spirit Broods on the Sea 

A Dream of the Mother Life 

A Night at St. Helena 

A Gray Day in Autumn 

Chorus of the Bumble Bees' Song 

The Abandoned House 

Eleanor, The Elusive 

Kathleen and the Butterfly - 

The Buttercup 

Margaret and the White Birch 



Page 
ii8 
119 

121 

122 
123 
124 
125 
126 
127 
128 
129 
130 

131 

132 

^33 
134 
136 

138 
140 
141 
142 
144 

145 
146 

147 
148 
149 
150 

151 



Page 



Brothers to the Blood 

The Loom of Life 

In Memoriam - - _ 

To Rose _ _ _ 

Egypt _ _ _ 

The Harvest Moon 

The Anarchist 

The Black Cell 

To an Imprisoned Steel Worker 

The House Wren 

A Common Heritage 

The Devil's Curse 

Desolate _ _ _ 

BiscAYAN Bay _ _ _ 

Poems; Mine and Thine 

The Tree Toads 

A Greeting _ _ _ 

A Maiden _ _ _ 

A Mirage _ _ _ 

The Jail _ _ _ 

The Jailer _ _ _ 

The Cripple _ _ _ 

A Honeysuckle 

Unrequited _ _ _ 

Strife and Song 

The Lyricist - - - 

How Love Dies 

The Sign Post of Life 



The Lone Wolf _ _ _ 

Love's Message _ _ _ 

The Egotist - - -' - 
The House of Invention 

A Sphynx - - _ _ 
The Upland Meadow 

Fate _ - - _ _ 

An Inquiry - _ _ _ 

To SwEN Hedin's " Leader of the 
Caravan in the Desert of Gobi" 

"And Yet for a Time, " - 



Page 


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183 


184 


185 


186 


187 


188 


189 


190 



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